Just Another Way of Destroying a Man
by Unfading
Summary: Centred on Sirius' continuous falling through the archway, though is not really about it. From the detached thoughts, odd memories and obscure facts a strange picture is forming – picture of something totally different... What does it all mean?


**Just Another Way of Destroying a Man  
**_By Unfading_

Summary: Department of Mysteries. From detached thoughts, odd memories, and obscure facts, a strange picture is forming: a picture of something completely different... Centres on Sirius' long-drawn falling through the archway; though, is not truly _about_ it.

Genre: metafic  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: don't own, just watching  
Spoilers: all five Harry Potter books (esp. 5TH)  
Characters: Sirius, Dumbledore (?), the boy-who-lived.

A/N: Despite its obvious weirdness, this story is not meaningless; at least, I do my best trying to put a message in it. All necessary references and translation of Latin phrases are given in the end of the document.

**How it all happened  
**The woman with gaunt, skull-like face waved her hand. Her movement was fast and irreproachably precise. The reddish glow coming from her wand suited her appearance perfectly and even seemed to be an extension of her hand. He knew this woman too well and thus could not ignore her predictably menacing gesture. He raised his hand with obvious intention to answer and took a deep breath preparing to cast a spell.  
  
But at that very moment, the reddish glow touched his breast and blew away all his carefully-prepared-in-advance breath.  
  
His body, according to the Newton's second law (Newton was a Muggle in Middle Ages), had been thrown away with the force derived by multiplication of the mass of that body with the acceleration given to it by the reddish glow. The first multiplier was far too less than the second – and that was not surprising, considering the source from which the woman with gaunt face took the inspiration for her curses.  
  
Deprived of its point of rest, his body had flown several metres before it touched something soft and springy. He frowned: the crack, coming from that touch, was disgusting.  
  
**Upon the chasm  
**He was hanging over the abyss, desperately clutching at the meek sprouts growing on the edge. Their thin needles were tearing with foul bubbling sound, and that sound reminded him of the over-boiled potions his mother liked to brew. Her addiction to that particular branch of magic science - namely, _potion brewing_ - was one of her few weaknesses; so, she spent countless hours extracting, sublimating, calcinating, evaporating and tearing to pieces. In her eyes, the complex process of potion making represented some kind of a purification ritual. This ritual was sacred for her, since the Purification had always been the Calling and the Holy Mission of her family. At least, that's what she had been constantly saying to her ill-fated sons.  
  
She used to stir her brewing with a bleached thin bone: A symbol of Life purified to perfection.  
  
Upon recalling that trifle, he thought that the bone had to belong to somebody else before. And then he thought that it'd make a perfect point of rest; a far better point of rest than those white needles of still-alive-plants could provide.

He was climbing up with the power of desperation. He believed that it would be enough. He could not even imagine that it might turn otherwise.  
  
Anyway, a man falling into the abyss scarcely analyses his actions.  
  
**From without  
**A thin and pale teenage boy, stretching his neck oddly, was calling into the darkness:  
  
'Sirius, Sirius!'  
  
In front of him, there was an old archway, entangled with cobwebs. He must be on the other side, right? He may come back every moment.  
  
The man with a grey head was looking at the boy with a strange expression in his eyes, but remained silent.  
**_  
_De profundis** (1)  
Not having reached the bottom, he opened his eyes. He felt pain (the water was too salt), but he did it nevertheless. The Sun was somewhere above him. From here, from the deep, it seemed much brighter than it really was; a thousand times brighter. It was shining through the surface of a liquid mirror. Only one thing was bad: water in his nose.  
  
'Sirius, Sirius!'  
  
He is five. His mother is on the shore. His brother is building castles from discoloured (purified?) sand; she proudly admires 'her dear boy'. His father is watching this idyllic scene with patronizing look, smiling 'just in case'. A half of his smile is assigned for a boring Ministry-man in a silver cloak, sitting by his side. Their talk is uninteresting. None of them would open their eyes to see the Underwater Sun.  
  
If so, who could call him?  
**  
Useless stuff comes free  
**Few people know that storing of old newspapers is rather difficult in the Wizarding World. These newspapers are created in a way that made them turn into dust after a certain amount of time. This is a good invention, indeed, since it noticeably reduces the sum of everyday garbage; and due to this very fact, the Wizarding World is much cleaner than the Muggle one. By the way, it provides another proof of magic people's obsession with _purity_ of all possible sorts.  
  
Old newspapers were rightly classified as 'useless stuff' and as such were destined for destruction.

Nevertheless, they can be saved from their inevitable death; all one needed was to cover them with a special slush, which was looking like a liquid glass. As a result, one obtained brittle and fragile glass papers; they were jingling slightly when they had touched each other. Archives and Periodical Press Departments in public libraries bore a strong resemblance to the cheap curiosity shops filled with bad-coloured pottery.  
  
Sometimes the old newspapers were used exactly for that purpose, i.e., as _pottery_; and that was not only an effective, but also a truly economical solution.  
  
A cup that belonged to a prisoner number 390 was rolled up from an old _Witch Weekly_ cover. His spoon was made from a _Hogwarts Express Schedule_ of the year nineteen seventy-four. His plate was a considerably fresh issue of the _Daily Prophet_.  
  
A prisoner number 390 could break his plates and dishes as frequently as he would like. Azkaban guards had absolutely no shortage of 'useless stuff'.  
  
**The last hero of the Wizarding World (second edition, revised)  
**The thin dark-haired teenage boy, who was desperately calling for somebody in front of a web-covered archway, had many problems in his life.  
  
First, he was an orphan. Second, he hadn't a slightest idea what's going on. Third, he was angry at the entire world itself and at every single one of its inhabitants. Fourth, he had a bunch of mad killers chasing after him.  
  
Those killers were indeed numerous. Just at that very moment about two dozens of them (all armed and very dangerous, of course) were stalking nearby; and this fact, undoubtedly, has made our story intriguing and even to some extent piquant.  
  
Nevertheless, the impartial observer – if there would be one - could safely state that those mad killers would be left with nothing. The matter was that this teenage boy had a wonderful and amazing ability _to stay alive _(and even win) in seemingly hopeless situations. The nickname, given him by the society, directly pointed to this admirable quality; namely, to his ultimate _vitality_, which was amazing even by wizarding standards. Having become his alternative name, this quality excellently described the true, genuine essence of the thin dark-haired teenage boy in question.  
  
**Striving  
**At first it seemed that the power which had made him come to the surface had absolutely no similarity with the power which helped him to turn the grates of his cell door into rust. Prison grates were created to stand for centuries; people here turned into rust much faster.  
  
In the city of Delhi, India, there is a wonderful iron pillar, which is – despite the hot and damp climate – totally resistant to rust. Civilized and progressive Europeans were eager to pay huge sums of money for a secret of a wonderful metal that dared to challenge The Immutable Law of Nature; the Law, according to which _all living things must inevitably return to dust. _That's why the abovementioned Europeans used to secretly saw off small pieces from the pillar and bring them to their modern-equipped laboratories, full of various complex and expensive technical devices. Strange, but upon arriving, these iron pieces always fell into rust, thus once again justifying the Immutable Law of Nature, so worshipped by all those progressionists.  
  
All things – like people – are striving to preserve their essence from destruction. The matter is that the true essence of the Pillar of Delhi _could not be reduced_ to the essence of material from which it was made._  
_  
**Mistake  
**He has been recalling:  
  
Family weekend on the sea-shore (sun splinter in the broken mirror)  
White bone as a cooking spoon (never liked potion makers)  
Old moth-eaten tapestries, torn in his hands (meek threads at the edge of the abyss)  
Iron turned to ashes (lost time)  
Bloody mess on the road, decorated with little finger (the world-tree Yggdrasil)  
  
This little finger represented a symbol of his mistake; it was a backbone, an essence, which embodied all of his existence - past, present and future. Having such a point of rest, the iron will never turn to rust.  
  
**Terribilis est locus iste** (2)  
'He won't come back,' the man with a grey head said at last.  
  
'No!'  
  
Funny, but this perpetually-fleeing-from-death teenage boy could never accept that certain events in his life were irreversible. Maybe, it happened so because this boy has never failed in his forced flight so far.  
  
'No!'  
  
Thing that he tried to object was the same thing that made his mere _existence_ in this world possible.  
  
**Well-considered strategic planning is a necessary condition of every victory  
**If using a logical line of reasoning, their organization had absolutely no chances of success in the past war. The Enemy outnumbered them more than ten to one. Aside from that, the Enemy had a Plan (with an upper-case 'P'), or, maybe, simply plan (with a lower-case 'p'); and, alas, in no way the Enemy's forces were lead by stupid idiots.  
  
They could oppose to a seemingly unconquerable Enemy's strength nothing but their naked enthusiasm.

That was not so bad, of course; for the healthy enthusiasm of just and good fellows is much better than the blind fanaticism of a Great Idea apologists – at least because it is more manageable. Not to mention that in a short time they built their own plan, and by the very fact of its creation brought a certain amount of disarray into the enemy lines.  
  
Nevertheless, the Author of the Plan, being quite a sensible man, understood clearly that there was no reason for the triumph. All their achievements could be described as merely introducing of the saving uncertainty into the situation of inevitable loss. And due to that, their future became dangerously unstable.  
  
**For no one  
**The power which enemy 'does know not' for them remained a mystery as well. This meant that the enemy could _also_ possibly have that power; no matter how absurd and illogical it might seem.  
**_  
_Weak spot  
**The threads were tearing one after another; now they were singing like strings, and each one had its own voice. For some reason it appeared to him strangely beautiful. The thinnest ones tore first. It could hardly be said that he did not expect this to happen, but somehow he thought about _betrayal_.  
  
He had always been thinking about betrayal since he found his tree Yggdrasil, appeared to him in the form of a bloodstained little finger.  
  
It is interesting that the first emotion, which came to him in that unexpected revelation, was nor fury, anger or the thirst for revenge, but instead a childishly helpless perplexity and offence.  
  
'How could that happen? It is impossible!'  
  
The keen sensitivity to the world injustice was not strange to him, as it was not strange to the pale and thin teenage boy, who has already come to the very edge of the abyss.  
  
**A Child of Reason  
**_Fear_ is a completely natural reaction of every living creature to the danger for its integrity. _Betrayal_ is no more than a simple derivation of fear, except that it is stripped of its ingenuousness.  
  
Every time the prisoner number 390 came to his senses, he tried to think what the betrayal really is.  
  
Had he been a different kind of person, he would have managed to work out something like the following algorithm:  
  
Variable – Fear, function – Betrayal.  
Step 1. Examine the current situation _rationally_  
Step 2. _Divide_ it into simpler components  
Step 3. _Analyse_ through all possible alternatives  
Step 4. Find the most _efficient_ solution  
  
Luckily, he had been and still remained an integrated being, and due to that was incapable of invention and putting into practice of such a scheme, even in this _divided_ reality where they were obliged to exist.  
  
By the way, this division came to existence only after they created their plan. Before that, betrayal was impossible. It was a _necessary and essential consequence of the plan._  
  
That's why the Author of the Plan was indeed horrified with the decisions he had to make.  
  
**Deliver me from the mire, that I may not sink** (3)  
The prayer and the passion come from the deeps of the heart and possess the tenacity of ivy or that of a barbed wire. And because of that he still hasn't reached the bottom of this dry well, being hung up in-between instead. He couldn't do otherwise; he should return to stop the nightmare of the poor exhausted child, who still was calling his name. He couldn't sacrifice him to this enormous Little Finger, nor did he want to buy their happy future for a price of the child's blood.  
  
He denied the wonderful Plan created by his friends - and so, he weren't able to pass on.  
  
**Post mortem  
**The not-so-free-falling man recalled that his friend with a grey head mentioned once that his addiction to the pale dark-haired teenage boy was in fact addiction to a _memory_, arisen on the base of_ similarity_.  
  
Maybe, he was right, this man: in his passionate, deep feeling for the boy, a faint sigh of necrophilia had always been present (or was it another essential quality of the abovementioned teenage boy?)  
  
By the way, these words of the man with a grey head might as well be addressed to any other character from this story; their meaning would not have lost an iota because of that change.  
  
**How to satisfy?  
**In the most crucial battle of this season (Wise Wiseman vs. Evil Evildoer), the following dialog took place:  
  
'So, you even don't seek to kill me? Above such brutality, are you?'

'Merely taking your life wouldn't satisfy me, I admit...'  
  
Standing aside as he had been told, the pale teenage boy didn't bother to think about the true meaning of these words and didn't try to find an answer to the obvious question: indeed, what could_ really satisfy_ him, that Wise of the Wise, who had invented such an outstanding and utterly _humane _Plan?  
  
He was thinking about the things more vital: about the dark archway, covered with dusty cobwebs, and about the voices that were heard from behind it – the voices of those who loved him.  
  
**In essence divided  
**The last night in October, Halloween, is more than an appropriate time for Belshazzar's feast. The words 'counted, counted, weighted, divided' describe the magical and spiritual essence of this strange night the best way possible.  
  
However, he liked that night for a quite different reason, both simpler and more natural. This reason dealt with purely formal aspects of that night – such as pumpkins, candles, spookies – and had nothing to do with something philosophical or existential.  
  
But still, if he didn't believe in high philosophy, if the laughed at pompous sententions about the importance of being pure-blooded, if he completely ignored boring lectures of his school professors about the genuine essence of True Magic – then why was _he _among the first who came there when all that happened?  
  
**The past is dead  
**Briefly, their Plan can be summarized in three simple worlds: foresee, foretell, foredoom. If you look narrowly at these words, everything becomes clear:  
  
Fore - see  
Fore - tell  
Fore - doom  
  
With such knowledge, even not-so-bright person can unmistakably determine the essential weakness of this Plan. What can be said about its Author? These three 'fore' has been tormenting his hypersensitive conscience mercilessly, day by day stronger and stronger.  
  
'Fore' means 'be-fore'; it means that everything has already happened; that this war has already happened; that all who died in it had in fact been dead long time before it started – and even more, that they had been dead from the very beginning. The infamous Last Battle, which they won (or, maybe, lost; this is inessential) – has already happened as well.  
  
It is impossible to change the past; the Author of the Plan was positively sure in that. Nevertheless, sometimes he let himself dream about the impossible.  
**_  
_Irreversibility  
**From a certain point of view, his life can be compared to a train, which had already passed the last switch and now was rushing at full speed – strict and sure, beyond any hesitation, through the darkness, to nowhere.  
**_  
_He whom I enclose with my name...** (4)  
The most part of his childhood this teenage boy spent under lock and key, in a small and cramped cupboard that was completely inappropriate for any human dwelling. But the irony of this situation lies in the fact that he understood how miserable he was only post factum, having been freed from his imprisonment, when the main cause of his suffering was eliminated. To understand this paradox it might be helpful to know that the majority of suicides is committed not in the state of depression, but when this state is over; because only then can people attain the ability to realise that their situation was indeed unbearable.  
  
The end of the depression of this teenage boy directly resulted in his regaining the ability to formulate, at last, the only desire that was really meant for him – maybe, his _heart _desire:  
  
'I don't want to be a human!'  
  
This desire became an integral part of his being at the same night he learned how to talk to snakes.  
**_  
_Half-life  
**The supply of white threads that didn't let him fall into the abyss has come to an end. The stock of old newspapers also has almost been over (they were like wings and he recalled the myth about Icarus). The old bone that his mother used for potion brewing disappeared next; he didn't know how he'd come to possess that one.  
  
Everything he tried to touch was turning into rust. The last object he noticed was a small pocket mirror, fled right past his face; and he was surprised to see in it a pale-green shining instead of his own reflection.  
  
Everything was dissipating: things, memories, his own body.  
  
But he felt that he was still there, and reminded himself not to fall down. He had yet to gain revenge from the Little Finger and save this teenage boy from a terrible fate assigned for him (and to hell with all words with 'fore').  
  
Upon thinking so, the man in the abyss smiled - with lips already non-existent.  
  
**Between two mirrors  
**_The First. _Only few people can completely understand what love is. And even fewer can truly feel it – properly, in the way it's meant to be. Alas, our teenage boy was among this 'precious few', even if he put no attention to his unique ability yet (and, as a consequence, was inclining to underestimate it).  
  
At that moment, his anger was so strong, and his pain was so unbearable, that a little further – and the famous words of the wise Author of the Plan considering 'the power of free choice' would have completely lost their meaning.

Moreover, the thoughts about forgotten mirror were never leaving the boy in peace.  
_  
The Second._ It happened that the Author of the Plan at that very moment was looking into the mirror as well, though, into the quite different one.

Aside from lemon drops and wool socks, he saw something else.  
  
He saw as the pale and thin teenage boy, extremely tired of his constant fleeing from death, had accepted his defeat at last and thus granted a liberty to the unfortunate being which had been entangled in cobwebs on its halfway to Eternity.

_The end._

_References:_

(1) Out of the deep (Lat.)  
  
(2) Powerful (or terrible) is that place... (Lat.) Full quote: 'Terribilis est locus iste: hic domus Dei est, et porta coeli' - 'Powerful is this place: it is the House of God and the gate of Heaven.' - Genesis 28:17.  
  
(3) 'Deliver me from the mire, that I may not sink: let me be delivered from my adversaries, and from the deep waters.' - Psalm 69:14.  
  
(4) 'He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon. I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow. I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand lest a least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being.' – Rabindranath Tagore's 'Gitanjali', verse 29.


End file.
